Cause I'm a Little Unsteady
by RaisingAmara
Summary: When Sam gets left behind to help Dad run "the family business," will Dean come to regret his decision to try for something better? How many run-ins with ghosts and ghouls can a teenage Sam survive without one big brother watching his back? And what's up with the guy who holds Dean's contract? Is the world of professional racing supposed to be marked by starvation and cruelty?
1. Chapter 1

"Sammy, come with me."

Sam smiled that fake smile that had taken 16 years to perfect, "Can't, Dean. Someone's got to stay and watch after Dad. But you need to do this. An opportunity like this … it doesn't come around twice."

Dean shook his head. "Not leaving you behind, geek boy. Either you come with, or I stay here."

Sam snorted. "I'm a big boy, Dean. Can look after myself. Me and Dad, we'll be fine. You go. Do this. See how it turns out. You know, you can always come home again."

It was Dean's turn to snort. "You sure about that? Once Dad finds out …"

Sam shrugged. "He'll be hurt. He'll get over it. One son in the family business is plenty. You love to drive, Dean. It's like someone's paying you to breathe."

Dean grinned, his excitement humming like an electric current through the cheap motel room. "Like paying me WELL to breathe." He added. "I still can't believe it." He sank down on the edge of the damp bed, shaking his head. "Of all the things I'd never thought could ever happen to me, getting discovered in Shitwater, Tennessee wasn't one of them."

Sam grinned. "Guess all that tinkering with go-karts finally paid off."

Dean stared at Sam with all the possibilities of life shining in his eyes, "They think I can make pro, Sammy. We're talking NASCAR, here. What the hell? Me?"

"Why not you? You have a gift, Dean."

"I'm old though. Some of those guys, they've been racing since they could walk."

"And you haven't? Dean, I remember you peeling away from that rawhead hunt when you were, what? Nine? You couldn't even see over the dash, but Dad was hurt and couldn't do anything more than moan on the backseat. You got him to the hospital in minutes. Most grown men would have had trouble on those old backroads."

Dean suddenly looked severe. "That thing was coming for you, Sammy. Bastard was heading straight for the car with it's eyes glued to you. That night wasn't to get Dad to a hospital so much as it was to put as many miles as possible between you and that evil sonofabitch."

Sam felt touched. He'd never heard that version of the story.

He was going to miss his brother.

He stood, pasting what he hoped was a realistic smile on his face, as he moved to stand over the boy who'd looked after him all his life. He placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Just don't get yourself killed, okay? And you better call. I think at least twice a day is acceptable."

Dean suddenly looked haunted. "I don't wanna leave you behind."

"You can come back and get me once you've made your millions. We'll swim in your Olympic-sized pool filled with champagne, and you can introduce me to Yasmine Bleeth."

Dean's jaw dropped. "Dude! You WERE paying attention."

Sam snorted, "Kind of hard not to, Dean, considering _Baywatch_ has been your go-to choice of television for the last three years."

"Religion, Sammy. _Baywatch_ is a religion." Dean said, closing his eyes and smiling, "Such tiny bikinis. So many big …"

"Dean."

"What? I was going to say "beaches."

Sam shook his head, stepping into his sneakers. "Yeah you were. Anyway, Dad said to meet him at the diner in two hours. It's time."

Dean stood, nodding. He glanced over at his brother. "So … I got your blessing on this? For real? You won't hate me if I leave?"

Sam looked up, surprise evident in his face. "You'll always have my blessing, Dean. You know that. Go. Drive. Make money and score beautiful girls." He smiled, reaching for his jacket.

"But what about you?"

Sam grinned, shoving Dean ahead of him out the door. "I plan to live vicariously through the exploits of my big brother. So you better make it interesting, jerk."


	2. Dean's Committment

You do this, Dean, and you're on your own." John said simply, his hand lifting a trembling coffee cup to his lips.

Sam glanced sideways and saw the effect his father's words had on his brother. "Dad, you need to go with him. They want him to sign a contract. You should be there."

But John shook his head and gestured to the waitress. "Your brother's 20 years old, Sam, old enough to make his own decisions, old enough to leave the family, apparently. Nothing I have to say is going to matter now."

Dean's voice was steady, but his eyes pleaded with his father to understand. "Lyle says I can make pro, Dad. I could sure … sure use your support."

John eyed his son, unfazed. "You always have my support, Dean. I don't want you to do this. This decision you're making - it's selfish. People will die because of it. I need you out there, helping me battle the evil that you know exists, but if you're bound and determined to bury your head in the sand and ignore it all for your own glory … well, I don't know how to argue that." He turned to the waitress, "We'll take the check please."

Dean sat, silent, and Sam could see the wheels turning inside his brother's head. "I'll go with you, Dean, to meet with Lyle. I can look over anything he wants you to sign."

Dean nodded, grateful, but John cut in, "It's a nice idea, Sam, but I need you with me. There's a job one town over. Two kids have already died. Another one is in intensive care. We need to leave ASAP."

And then Sam didn't know what to say because it was kids who were dying. He stared at Dean helplessly, and recognized the moment his older brother made his decision. The older boy stood up, dropping a twenty-dollar bill on the table.

"You take care, Sammy." He said, ruffling the younger boy's hair affectionately. "Stay safe, and take care of Dad, okay? Call if you need me."

Sam simply nodded, not trusting his voice to speak.

Dean turned to his father, addressing him without making eye contact. "I understand, Dad. I do. Be safe. Keep Sammy safe."

John nodded, not speaking, as Dean strode to the door of the tumble-down diner without looking back. Sam watched as he crossed the street and settled onto the park bench by the bus stop sign. Minutes later, as Sam and John waited in line at the register, Sam watched silently as Dean climbed the steps of the sleek Greyhound and disappeared into its depths.

The bus pulled away then, taking the most important part of Sam with it.

###

"Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Dean." Montrose, or 'Monte', clarified. "If we both sign this contract, your balls belong to me. You do what I say, when I say it. We clear on that?"

Dean stared straight back. "My balls belong to me, and no piece of paper anywhere is ever gonna say any different. Are we clear on THAT?"

Monte challenged the young upstart seated across the desk from him. The kid wasn't afraid to speak up for himself, for sure. "Then maybe we don't have a deal, son."

Dean nodded, rising immediately. "Maybe we don't. My father didn't raise any fools, Montrose." He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and made for the door.

Monte let him get a hand on the latch before calling him back. "Now just hold on. Hold on. Like MY daddy said, Dean, everything's negotiable." He waved Dean back into his seat. "Sit back down, and don't fly off the handle." Monty lowered his head and stared at Dean over the tops of his glasses. "That'll get you killed faster than anything in off-road racing."

Dean smirked. "Nice to know you care so much."

"I'm about to make a damned big investment in you, son. Damn right I care." Monte stood and moved to the wall of head shots. "These guys? They all drive for me. Or they drove for me. Some of 'em had a little help from the start - rich daddies. Some grew up in racing. Others are like you, Dean - raw talent without a penny to their names."

Dean huffed up at that remark and was about to fire back when Monte help up a hand in surrender. "Just statin' a cold, hard truth, Dean. I believe in you. I've seen what you're capable of. If I didn't, I sure wouldn't be sittin' across from you at that desk, ready to hand you the master keys to my kingdom."

Dean remained silent.

"It takes a hell of a lot of work to make a name for yourself in the racing world. You want the world to know the name Dean Winchester? You work for it. Long hours behind the wheel and under the hood. You drive and drive and drive until you feel like you can possibly drive another mile, and then you drive ten more. You'll take a lot of shit too - from the guys who want to be you and ain't, from their wives and girlfriends, from reporters who have their favorite faces and you ain't it. Hell, even the fans will eat you up and spit you out the first time you disappoint 'em. You'll spin out. You'll crash. You'll get hurt. You might even die. But if you don't, the payoff is damned big, son. You want all that? I'm opening the door for you. It's up to you whether you drive on through it."

The two stared each other down - the twenty-year-old with nineteen-years-worth of attitude and talent to match, and the business man, interested only in the bottom line. And whatever they saw in each other was mutual. Monty handed Dean the pen. "Keep your family jewels then. But I get the rest."

Dean smirked, nodding, and signed the documents.


	3. Slim Jims and Pipe Dreams

Sam winced as he made the grab for his cellphone, but only one person he knew would be calling around midnight. The reach across the bed was agonizing, but he snagged the phone, grinning when he caught a glimpse of the ID.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Sasquatch." his brother's familiar voice filled the line.

"Dean! It's about damned time you called."

"Nice language there, kiddo. I take it Dad's out of the office?" Dean chuckled.

"At the bar, blowing off steam."

Dean's voice was suddenly filled with concern, "You two just off a hunt?" He asked, knowing the drill. "You okay?"

Sam hesitated, wondering if the devastating claw mark he sported over his ribs would constitute "okay" in his brother's book.

No, probably not.

"Yeah, We're good." Sam lied, drawing in a shallow breath and trying to let it out easy. "Just a werewolf thing. We got them."

"Them? There were two?" Dean suddenly sounded murderous. "But not just you and Dad, right? He called in reinforcements?"

"No, just us, Dean. But like I said. It's all good."

Dean was silent a moment on the other end, then, "Dammit! I should be there. Dad shouldn't be taking you along after werewolves, Sam! Those sonsabitches are lethal on a good day." He swore. "I KNEW this would happen! Sometimes I think Dad doesn't have any common sense at all."

"Dean, it's okay. Honest. I'm fine. Dad's fine. Werewolves? Not so much." He grinned.

Dean sighed, "I ain't happy about this."

Sam went for a redirect. "So … you sign the contract?"

"Yeah." But Dean's voice lacked the excitement that Sam longed to hear.

"So? You get a good deal?"

"Think so," Dean was warming up. "I had to negotiate a little, but I think I did pretty good. As soon as I get a first payout, I'll shoot you and Dad some money, Sammy. And you better use it on a new pair of boots too. Those things you're currently wearing on those gunboats you call feet were trash about a month back."

Sam grimaced, glancing down at his bruised and battered feet. Dean was right. The whole heel was gone out of the left boot, which made running through the woods in the dark for your life a little dicey. He'd found that out tonight.

"I will." He promised. "You better get yourself something too. You need a new coat."

But Sam could almost hear Dean's grin, "Screw that, Sammy. Next coat I buy is gonna be covered in sponsors. We're talking all the good stuff too - that brand-name shit we could never afford like Red Bull and Slim Jims. Hell, I might be able to keep us in Slim Jims for the rest of our lives."

Sam pictured that. He could easily live off Slim Jims and be happy forever. "That'd be great, Dean." He smiled, relaxing in the easy conversation and forgetting, for a moment, that he'd been, so recently, a wolf's chewtoy. He leaned back against the headboard and couldn't suppress the sudden gasp that left his body in a whoosh.

"What's wrong?" Dean was on him in a heartbeat, and Sam could almost see the older boy's ears twitching like a hound dog that had caught wind of a raccoon.

"N-nothing." Sam struggled to keep his voice even.

Silence.

"That's bullshit. You're hurt, aren't you? I swear to God, Sammy. If Dad took you out in the woods and got you mauled, I'll …"

Sam sighed. "I'm not mauled, Dean. I promise. Just got a little scratch is all."

Dean sounded lethal. "What kind of a scratch? How big? Where is it?"

Sam considered lying, then realized Dean would call him on it. His brother had a sixth sense about things that involved Sam. "Just a little claw mark over my ribs is all. Dad stitched me up. I'm fine."

Dean swore. "That thing got you? It clawed you?" The older boy's voice was suddenly filled with fear. "It didn't bite you, did it? You tell me the truth, Sam. I mean it."

"No bites. Just … my boot tripped me up, and I went face down in the leaves. By the time I rolled over to raise my gun, it was on me. Landed on me, slashed me once. I shot it. End of story. I'm good, Dean. I swear."

No conversation from the other end of the line, but Sam could hear angry breathing.

"And where the hell was Dad while you were being attacked by a damned werewolf?"

"He was dealing with problems of his own. We kind of stumbled into den."

"Fuck, Sam! How many?"

Sam hesitated, knowing how the news would go over.

"Sam!"

"Three, okay? Just three. I got the first one. Dad got the last two."

Silence.

"So you were, what? Bait?"

"I don't wanna talk about this, Dean. You know how it goes. You show up. Do the job. Shut up. Now tell me about what's going on with you. I've been dying to hear from you, you know? It's been four days."

"I'm coming home."

Sam sighed again. "You're not coming home. I want my lifetime supply of Slim Jims, Dean. I NEED it."

"Did Dad at least take you to a clinic? If that gets infected ..."

"Dad knows how to clean a wound, Dean. Marine. Remember? I'm fine. Now where are you? You still in Tennessee?"

Silence.

Dean was the most stubborn person Sam knew. Ever.

"Dean, please? I've been dying to hear from you."

It was reluctant, Sam could tell, but Dean gradually began sharing facts. "We're on our way up to Kentucky. Someplace called Rush Off-Road. Monte wants me to watch a hillclimb."

Sam leaned back, smiling. This is what he'd been craving for days. "Hillclimb? That just like it sounds?"

"Yeah. I watched some footage. There are these cars that look like cages, and you drive 'em up this big hill."

Sam thought about that. He nodded as though his brother could see him. "Sounds easy enough, right?"

"I think so." Some of the excitement was coming back into Dean's voice as he spoke, and Sam ingested it like the best kind of medicine. "I'm excited about this, Sammy. I mean, none of it looks harder than what I've been doing all my life, you know? Some of these guys, they might have been racing for money since they were kids, but we were racing for our lives, you know? Sort of gives me the advantage. At least I hope."

"It will, Dean. I know it." Sam agreed, picturing his brother on the winner's podium. "So, you just going to watch, or you going to get to try it?" Sam slid his laptop across the bed and flipped it open. He searched up "hillclimb" and felt all the air leave his body.

" … Monte said." Dean was speaking, but Sam had missed the first part. "I think they will."

"Dean …" Sam breathed. "This … they just …"

"What's wrong, Sammy?"

"I just Googled "Hillclimb," Dean!"

"Oh," the older boy chuckled. "Is that all?"

"Is that all, he says." Sam retorted. "Dean, this looks dangerous! It looks LETHAL!"

"No more dangerous than taking on three werewolves in the dark." Dean shot back. "Look, Sammy. I'll be fine, okay? Don't worry about me. Those vehicles, they're special built to protect you if you flip over."

"But Dean …"

"Listen, Sam. I gotta go, okay? Monte has a strict rule about lights out. I'm staying under his roof. Gotta listen to the rules. I'll call you when we get to Kentucky, okay?"

"Yeah." Sam said, suddenly feeling bereft. This was his older brother, and he was suddenly at the mercy of someone else's bullshit rules. It didn't sit well with Sam. "Is he treating you right, Dean? You getting enough to eat and enough sleep and stuff?"

"I'm fine as wine, Sammy. And you tell Dad, no more dangerous shit, or I'm coming back there and tell him myself, okay? Take care of yourself, kiddo."

"You too, Dean." Sam said, as his brother ended the connection.

And somewhere near the Kentucky line, Dean placed his phone on the floor of the van and tried to find a comfortable position on the cramped bench seat. He tried not to think about the food that Sam had mentioned. The first order Monte had issued after the contract negotiation was that Dean lose thirty pounds. Since then, he'd had little-to-nothing to eat. No more than Monte would allow him, and the guy kept severe tabs on his investments, as Dean was learning. Energy bars, vitamin supplements and water could only take a guy so far, Dean reasoned, as he drifted off, dreaming of cheeseburgers and werewolves.


	4. Needing Each Other

Dean collapsed onto the bed more than he did simply lie down. In all the years he'd fought side-by-side with his father and brother, he'd never hurt this badly. His shoulder felt like it was broken, his face raw with road rash, and Dean was sure nearly every muscle in his body had taken abuse this day. If he didn't know better, he'd be sure even his toenails ached.

He needed to sleep … just … sleep. And he was starving.

Ignoring the inches of mud and debris that covered him head-to-toe, Dean closed his eyes and drifted off - images of happier times spiraling down behind him.

But then the door to the trailer crashed open, and Dean was suddenly thrust back into wakefulness as Monte strode angrily over and stood glaring down at him.

"So you think it's nap time, do you, rookie?"

Dean struggled to sit up, not liking his vulnerable position with the older man towering over him.

"Well? I asked you what the hell you think you're doing?"

"No, you didn't." Dean said simply, pissed. This guy may have held his contract, but he sure as hell didn't own his soul.

Monte's eyes darkened. The older man was unused to back talk, and this Winchester kid was aces at it. It was one of the reasons why Monte felt compelled to drive him so far past his limits. Truth was, Monte didn't like the kid. He didn't like his attitude that was bigger than Georgia. He didn't like his flippant replies whenever Monte gave him an order, and he REALLY didn't like the fact that the kid was revealing himself to be a natural. This whole mess may have started out as a genuine money-making deal, but it was fast turning into something else. Winchester had captured the attention of everyone on the circuit with his skill and steady determination. And the worse Monte treated him, the more the older man could feel the disapproving eyes of the league.

The kid was making him look like a monster, and Monte didn't like it. He was determined now that the Winchester kid was going to quit and slink away home in a very public fashion. Then Monte would have him right where he wanted him - in breach of his contract. He'd never have to look at the little smartass again, yet he'd still get a portion of everything the kid ever earned throughout his life.

Kid should've read the small print on that contract, Monte thought, smiling. He glared down at the kid who had more attitude than brains and suddenly knew exactly how to put him in his place.

"So you're proud of your performance today, Ace?" He asked, snidely.

"Hell yeah, I am." Dean returned immediately, referring to his ability to climb the hill his first time out. Dean had known from the cheers and congratulations that followed his rookie climb that he'd done something amazing. "Climbed that bitch ten times over. No other rookie ever did it." He placed a shaky hand over his destroyed shoulder and rubbed it gently. Man, it was times like this he missed his brother something fierce. Sam's graceful hands were perfect for working the painful kinks out of shoulder muscles.

But Monte sneered. "Now is that counting the final three runs when you rolled back down?"

Dean shrugged, wincing. "Everybody rolls eventually. Paul Angello told me that."

Monte snorted. "Paul Angello was washed up his first year in. Kid wasn't worth what the ink cost on his contract."

Dean stared up in dismay. Paul Angello was a fast-rising star in the off-road circuit. Dean had been around long enough to hear the rumors.

Monte stepped back, preparing to deliver the words that he knew would destroy the cocky kid in front of him. "You know what happens when you roll one? You think it's cute? Think it's manly? Well it ain't. It's stupid is what it is. It shows the world you ain't got the sense God gave a goose. You know what else it does?"

But Dean was shutting down. He was used to Monte's abuse by now, and he had an innate ability to turn the guy off when he became too ridiculous. Dean began shrugging out of his driving suit, trying not to gasp as the sleeves came down off his shoulders.

"It kills people, you dumbass. It kills spectators. It you ever roll back down that hill during competition like you did today? People will die. That matter to you at all?"

Dean shook his head. The guy was lying. Dean had watched the other drivers. They'd all rolled eventually.

Monte was growing frustrated at Dean's lack of appropriate chagrin. "You know who was watching that race today, boy? Family. Maybe mine. Maybe Angello's. Maybe even yours. Maybe that smartass kid brother you talk so much about, hmmm?"

And at that, Monte had the kid's full attention, just like he'd known he would. The man smirked.

"Maybe Sam was in that audience today, hmmm? Maybe he showed up to cheer on big brother. And what he'd get for his trouble? He got dead. He got dead because Dean Winchester with his big attitude got cocky. What do you think about that, Winchester? Maybe when you rolled today, you rolled right over your sixteen-year-old brother. Maybe that's his blood coating your driving suit right now, instead of just mud. Maybe your vehicle landed on him like a fucking building, smashing him flat and busting his head open like a squashed watermelon. Maybe that's his freaking brains splashed up all over your boots right now." Monte paused, delighted to see the sickly green pallor that had overtaken the kid.

"Maybe Sammy died today because you killed him - you, Dean. You killed him. Your car, your run, your attitude. You think shit like that don't happen? It does, more times than I could count. You get cocky, you get careless, and it's some innocent bystander, some fan, someone's kid brother who could end up paying the price." Monte stopped for a breath. The kid looked like he was going to puke.

Good.

Monte stood over him, pleased that he'd finally managed to get under the kid's skin. He knew which tool to use now, and he'd be sure to take advantage of it in the future.

"So you think about that tonight when you look at that suit you're wearing. Sure, tonight it's covered in mud. Tomorrow? Who knows?" Monte smirked down at Dean. "Sleep tight, asshole." He said, striding to the door and disappearing through it.

Dean made it to the trailer's small toilet before vomiting.

###

"Your brother needs to get the hell back home. I can't fight monsters like this."

The words were delivered cruelly, just as John had intended, and Sam felt every syllable. He tried to shrink into himself more, in the hopes of becoming invisible to his father's wrath, but no luck. John was determined to let Sam know how disappointed he was in him - how badly he'd screwed up.

"Dad, I think … I think I need the hospital." Sam stammered, scared. He was hurting more than he thought he could bear, the pain in his side where the railroad spike had gone through throbbing in tune with the beat of his heart. Sam gritted his teeth, trying not to scream as John tugged the foreign object free angrily.

"Man up, Sam." John barked, holding pressure over the wound. "It didn't go clean through - just halfway. You don't need a hospital. And it's your own damned fault anyway."

"S-sorry." Sam stammered. "I'm sorry."

But John just shook his head, taking Sam's hand and placing it over the makeshift compress. "Here, pressure." He barked, turning to the first-aid kit. As Sam placed a shaking hand over the bandage, he saw John remove a syringe from its sterile plastic packaging and sink it into a vial of medicine. He winced as John plunged the needle into his already flaming side. He cried out, unable to help it.

"Dammit, Sam. Hold still. That bitch was rusty as tombs. You need this antibiotic."

"Pain, Dad! I really need something for pain! Please!"

But John just shook his head. "After." He said. "You know what pain is, Sam? It's a reminder not to let your guard down next time."

Sam rolled and twisted on the ground, unable to help himself. "Please!" He sobbed, ashamed.

John stopped in his ministrations long enough to glare at his injured son. "Stop moving right now, Sam, or I'll knock you out. You hear me?"

Sam did his best to stop writhing as he watched his father thread up the needle for his impending stitches, minus the painkiller.

"I want Dean." Sam whimpered, as the needle sank in.

John snorted. "You and me both." he said, and commenced stitching.


	5. The Rescue

"Hey, Sammy." Dean kept his voice playful, determined not to worry the kid. He just needed to hear for himself that Sam was good.

"Hunh?" Sam muttered, confused.

Silence.

"Sam? What's wrong?"

Sam tried to focus, the painkillers his father had given him making him feel woozy. "Nuh … nothing. Dean? Is this Dean?"

Dean paused. "Yeah … it's me. What the hell's wrong with you, Sam?"

Sam rubbed his face. "Nothing. M'okay."

"You're not okay either. What's wrong? You drugged?"

"Jus … just ssssome painkillers." Sam drawled without thinking.

Silence.

"Sounds like the good stuff. What happened? And don't you dare lie to me."

Sam tried to think. "Poltergeist."

Dean swore. "How bad?"

Sam had the swift and fleeting thought that he should probably lie, but he was too loose to complete the thought. "Stabbed. I … I got st-stabbed."

Silence. Sam thought he heard the unfortunate sounds of seething.

"How bad?" Dean repeated, his voice tight, as though he was one hairs-width away from a total freak out.

"Hurts." Sam breathed, wondering when the ceiling had started vibrating.

"Where, Sam?"

"Stomach. It was a … a railroad spike."

"So dull and rusty? That's just fucking great. You in a hospital?"

Sam squinted to see the name of the motel's flashing light outside his window. "At the Sleep Well. Room 19. I think … I think …"

Dean waited, "What? You think what?"

"Think I'm gonna puke." Sam shot off the bed, dropping the phone. In the distance, Dean heard the sounds of retching.

"Sam? Sammy? You okay?"

Silence, then, "Dean? D -? Hurts really bad." Sam's voice held tears, and that scared Dean worse than anything.

"Where the hell is Dad?" The older boy barked, tossing clothes into a duffle.

"I don't know." Sam's voice was strained. "I … he …" He sighed. "I just woke up when you called. I don't kn-know where he is. I can't remember how long I've been … I'm c-cold. It's s-so cold here."

There was a full-blown sob then, and Dean swore silently.

"Listen to me, Sammy. I'm on my way, okay? But do I need to send an ambulance to get you? Where are you?"

"I don't know!" Sam whined, pain making him desperate.

Dean sank down on the edge of the bed, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Listen to me, Sam. Check the nightstand. Look for stationery, okay? It'll have an address."

Dean heard the sound of a drawer opening.

"Nothing. There's nothing."

"Okay. Plan B. Can you get to the office? Sam? Can you walk to the office and tell them you need an ambulance?"

But suddenly, Sam couldn't. The room began to fade, and his vision went dark around the edges. "Dean … I feel …"

Silence.

Dean sprang up from the bed. "What, Sam? You feel what?"

"Sam!"

"Sammy!"

When only silence answered his desperate plea, Dean disconnected the call. He flipped open the laptop that Monte had lent him and brought up the website of his cell phone company. Entering his user ID and password, he clicked on "Locate Phone." And when the ping surfaced, Dean thought it was his own phone he'd located, instead of Sam's. But then he realized what had happened.

Dad had slipped into town and dumped his badly injured brother at a motel that was less than 10 minutes away from where Dean was currently training.

"You son of a bitch." The older boy spit out, grabbing his wallet. Monte didn't let him keep keys to any of the vehicles, so Dean did what he'd done for most of his life anytime he needed wheels and didn't have them - he jacked the worst-looking beater in the parking lot and pointed it in the direction of the Sleep Well Inn just ten blocks down.

"On my way, Sammy. Hang on for me, little bro. Just hang on."

###

Dean quietly picked the lock on the door of room 19 and slipped unobtrusively inside. Sam had sounded out of his head. If he'd given the wrong room number, Dean didn't want to surprise some stranger.

All thoughts of the well-being of people he didn't know went out of his head, however, when the beam of his pencil light suddenly illuminated a mop of dark hair topping an ashen face.

Dean flipped on the room light and swore.

Sam lay across the bed closest to the door wearing nothing but a pair of sleep pajamas that were soaked through with blood and a yellowish residue. His face was the color of wood ash, and sweat made his hair damp.

"Fuck, Sammy!" Dean cupped his brother's face in his hands and tried to rouse him. "Sam! Come on, man. Don't do this to me, okay?"

When he got no response, Dean's eyes dropped to the foul bandage that covered nearly half of the kid's stomach. He carefully peeled back the tape, his eyes widening at the damage.

"Oh, Sammy! Oh, fuck!" Dean breathed, taking in the weeping wound that was clearly infected. Neatly placed stitches lined the wound, but it was obvious that it was past needing cleaned out. Probably, it should have been cleaned several times a day, and the bandage replaced. But instead of doing that, Dad had decided to dump his brother here, within arm's reach of Dean, knowing what would happen.

Either Dean would come to Sam, or Sam would find his way to Dean. And the older boy tried not to ponder what would have happened if he'd decided to put off calling his brother for even one more day.

His voice shook as he put in the call for the ambulance. He took a quick tour around the room as they waited, collecting everything of importance and tossing it into Sam's old gym bag that he used as a suitcase. He stowed the bag inside the stolen beater and sank down beside his brother on the bed, outlining the lie he'd need to tell once help arrived.


	6. What's Really Important

Sam was so pale, Dean thought he made the white sheets look dingy.

What the hell had he been thinking, leaving Sam alone with Dad like that?

The older boy leaned forward, studying the corpse-like face that belonged to his usually spectacularly annoying little brother, and swore.

Sam was sixteen, and it was Saturday night. The kid should be out with friends bowling or eating pizza or whatever ridiculous shit sixteen-year-olds did these days. He should have a hot cheerleader, or at least a hot science geek, on his arm and a few dollars in his wallet from a part-time job bagging groceries at the store on the corner of Normal and Boring.

Not this.

Not a hole in his stomach the size of a quarter and a whole host of jagged stitches that would do nothing to prevent scarring. Dean had looked. Sam's whole chest and abdomen under his gown was riddled with damage. Claw marks, stab wound.

The kid looked like he'd gone a round or two with a serial killer and only just barely lived to tell the tale.

Sam would have scars from this adventure, make no mistake.

And it was all Dean's fault.

This is what a Winchester got for wanting something more out of life. It was a good life lesson, Dean speculated. He'd have to remember to tell Sammy sometime about the dangers of pursuing normal.

But then again, looking down at the sad figure in the bed, Dean guessed that Sam had already gotten that memo.

Dean shook his head, blinked back tears that he was damned if he was gonna give into, and lifted his brother's still hand. He smiled when he felt the warmth there.

Maybe Sam was paler than one of the things they salted and burned on a daily basis, but his heart was strong.

The kid would bounce back from this.

He'd bounce back, and when he did, no more hunting.

Dean didn't care what he had to do to make it in this shitty world, but Sam would never share even a zip code with a big bad ever again.

And John … Dean had to stifle a snort.

John was decidedly out of the picture. Dean didn't care what possible reason the elder Winchester could have for abandoning Sam the way he had, considering the kid had almost died.

There was just no excuse.

If John wasn't dead, he might as well be, as far as Dean was concerned. The man would certainly never see Sam again, he'd make sure of that.

Sam was his, had always been his, really - his baby brother, his responsibility, his best friend.

This was all just making it official.

Dean had a new focus in life, and it wasn't a career in racing, and it wasn't prolonging the family business.

It was finding some way to provide this helpless kid in the hospital bed with some semblance of a damned life.

And Dean didn't give one shit what he had to do to make it happen. He didn't care who he had to cross or what contracts he had to back out of, Sam was the only thing that mattered now.

Dean absently stroked calloused fingers over his brother's lifeless palm. He'd never risk the chick flick moment out loud, but Sam had always been all that ever mattered.

When the cheap cell phone in his pocket hummed again for the seventeenth time in three hours, Dean rolled his eyes. He placed Sam's hand gently back on the crisp, white sheet and fished the annoyance out of his right jean pocket. Flipping it open, he barked.

"What!"

The lecture from the other end was loud enough that Dean was forced to hold the phone away from his ear. He rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, well. I don't give a shit. I got stuff goin' on."

Dean had to smile at the silence that suddenly emanated from the other end of the line. He'd finally succeeding in rendering Monte speechless. That is, until the threats began. But Dean's focus was elsewhere. He studied the beeping machine over his brother's head as he half-listened to the older man's tirade.

"Don't know. Don't care." He stated simply. "My kid brother's been hurt. He's in the hospital, and I ain't leavin' him." He flipped the phone shut and keyed it off, burying it back in his pocket. He leaned over Sam and grinned.

"Says he's gonna have me picked up by the cops, Sammy. You believe that? Something about violation of contract. He can bite my ass, that's what." Dean stared down at the pale kid in the bed, his hand drifting unthinkingly to Sam's forehead where it brushed a wild tuft of hair away from the kid's eyes.

"I'll show him violation of contract." Dean promised, smiling down. "I dare him to show up here with cops or anyone else." The older boy shook his head. "I ain't leavin' you again, kid. I promise."

###

Monte hung up his landline, seething. Never in his life had anyone ever dared talk to him like this Winchester kid had just done.

This little fucker was going to have to go.

Kid brother in the hospital, Monte's ass. He didn't care if the little pecker's whole damned family was lying in a ditch in the bottom of the ocean.

Nobody talked to him that way. Certainly not some ignorant little whelp from the back of nowhere.

Monte weighed his options, finally settling on the three mountainous bodyguards he kept on payroll for just such occasions. He pushed the intercom, signaling his secretary.

"Yes, Mr. Montrose?"

"Call Cap and have him meet me here with Shane and Billy. ASAP."

"Will do."

Monte grinned, checking his desk drawer for the gun he kept locked and loaded there at all times. Luckily, they'd landed in a pit small enough to have only one hospital. He strapped the holster to his belt and slipped the weapon inside.

It was time to pay respects to Winchester's little bro.


	7. Paul

Paul Angello smiled. His right wrist hurt like a bitch, but at least it wasn't broken. He eyed the bandage almost gleefully, relieved that he was benched for a week instead of for the six weeks he'd endured last crack-up.

That damned hill - it was near impossible not to roll down the thing - even for a seasoned driver like himself. The fact that the Winchester kid had managed it several times nearly blew his mind.

Kid had natural talent. Paul liked him.

He slipped down off the table and reached for the jacket Mick Daniels had been holding for him.

"I'm good, man. You ready to go?"

Daniels snorted, releasing the beat-up piece of leather that only Paul could care about. "Beyond ready. You buy stock in this place or what?"

"I should." Paul smiled, thinking back on how many times he'd managed to end up here over the past three years. And Mick was always at his side, always there to hold his coat if it was something so simple as a sprained wrist or to fill out his insurance paperwork if it was something … more serious.

Paul couldn't count on the fingers of both hands just how many times Mick had been the first face he'd seen when waking up in recovery or in ER. Or, as in the case of that time two-and-a half years ago, in Critical Care.

Mick hadn't even really known him then. Paul realized the guy had just felt sorry for Monte's newest kid, just like everybody felt sorry for Monte's kids. They were always the youngest drivers on the circuit, always the most inexperienced, always the most … vulnerable.

Paul still got nightmares when he thought back over those first months. It was actually Mick who'd saved him, who'd gotten him out. Otherwise … Paul would undoubtedly be dead by now.

Dead, or maybe worse.

Paul shook himself to rid his head of dark memories, and shoved his friend pointedly toward the door, grinning. The two plowed gracelessly out into the hallway and straight into the back of Dean Winchester.

Speaking of Monte's kids …

"Whoa there!" Paul cried, reaching for Dean with his hand that still worked. They'd caught the kid off-kilter and nearly knocked him down. "You okay, kid? Sorry about that."

Dean nodded, recognizing them, Paul realized. He was about to congratulate the boy on his performance earlier, when Dean gave him a quick smile and a sort of sad nod and then disappeared into the room across the hall.

Paul frowned. He locked eyes with Mick, both men coming to the same conclusion simultaneously: If Dean Winchester was in residence at Pocono General, it undoubtedly had something to do with Monte.

"What do you suppose that old bastard did this time?" Mick mused, shaking his head.

Paul sighed, saddened by the feelings that welled up every time he caught a glimpse of the Winchester kid.

Because, make no mistake, he'd been Dean Winchester once upon a time.

He knew what Winchester was going through - all of it - all the threats, the starvation, the intimidation. Paul remembered the lectures that had made him feel small, the belittlement and the castigation. He remembered being cut off and alienated from literally everyone he'd ever cared about. He'd lost his family, his friends, his fiance - all in the space of the worst year he'd ever known.

And all at the hands of Lyle Montrose.

When Paul looked at Dean, it all came rushing back, even though he'd tried for years to forget. His eyes hardened.

"I should have done something back then." He muttered, not realizing he'd spoken the words aloud.

Mick shook his head, instantly understanding. "Done what? You were just a kid. Monte held all the cards back then, just like he does with Winchester today. That's the way he sets it up."

"Don't make it right." Paul gritted his teeth as Monte's ugly voice echoed down the hallway. No doubt he was here for Dean, and Paul had the idea things were about to get ugly quick. He turned to Mick. "Maybe if I had, that kid in there wouldn't be about to get his ass handed to him." He turned and stared at the door Dean had disappeared into. The kid must have someone in there, someone he cared about.

Paul wished he didn't have to be a witness to the hard truth that was about to befall the kid and whoever he was visiting in that hospital room.

He watched Monte and his henchmen approach, saw the looks of surprise on all their faces when they saw him standing right where they needed to be. Then Montrose sneered, and Paul was suddenly transported back three years. He moved aside, turning quietly to Mick.

"Call Alex. Tell him to bring Rich. Get Tank and Gordie too and anyone else who'll come."

###

"About time you opened those baby browns." Dean kidded, planting himself securely by his brother's bedside as the night nurse checked the kid's dressings.

Sam mumbled something that sounded like Dean's name, not even completely awake yet. His feet moved restlessly beneath the covers as he drifted toward consciousness.

"Who else, you little bitch?" The older boy joked, the relief in his voice giving him away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the nurse glance up and smile in his direction.

Sam grimaced, his face drawing up in pain. "Dean ..."

But the nurse cut in before Dean could question her. "I know it hurts, Sam. I'm sorry. We didn't want to give you any more painkillers until we were sure you were coming out of everything as you should. We should be able to amp up the morphine a bit now, okay?" She patted his leg comfortingly, addressing her next words to Dean. "I'll go check with his doctor. I'll be right back."

Dean nodded, stepping close to the bed and staring down at the kid who meant more to him than anything else in the world. "Just hang on, Sammy, okay? They'll get you buzzing along nicely here in a minute or two." He picked up Sam's hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

Sam's head drifted toward the sound of his voice as his eyes fluttered open. They held unshed tears that cut straight into Dean's heart. "Dean? Why … where am I? What happened?"

Dean squeezed, tried to distract. "You don't remember?"

Sam swallowed, closing his eyes. "No, I don't think so." He took a breath and winced.

Dean faked a huge grin, "Well, last I heard, you were playing pinata with a poltergeist. Got a railroad spike to the gut for your trouble."

Sam snorted, instantly regretting it. He settled pain-filled eyes on his brother. "How'd you find me?"

"GPS." Dean told him simply. "Tracked your phone."

Sam frowned, "Dad?"

Dean hesitated, then shrugged. "Not sure, Sammy. You were alone when I found you."

Sam forced a sarcastic smile then, and Dean saw understanding dawn. It looked a lot like despair, and the older boy had to look away and concentrate hard on an ancient, smoking Ford down in the parking lot to keep from tearing up himself.

Damn. That look. On Sam's face.

Dean swallowed hard and forced himself to grin. "Looks like it's just you and me, kiddo. Wonderin' how you got so lucky, hunh?"

Sam nodded, shot Dean a grateful look, and tried not to let the pain - both physical and mental - overwhelm him.

But Dean saw. "Sam …" He started, his voice cracking.

"S'okay, Dean. I get it."

Dean stared back, wondering if now was the right time to instigate the conversation they undoubtedly needed to have. But the sheen of sweat on Sam's forehead, and the quaking in the kid's hands as he tried to hang onto the bed rail convinced him it wasn't. Luckily, he was saved from deeper explanations as Sam's nurse returned and began hooking up a new IV line.

"This is your morphine drip, Sam." She placed a trigger in his hand. "And this is your plunger. You press it whenever you need, as often as you need. You can't overdose using this. It won't let you." She situated the pole next to his bed and smiled down at the boy who looked so much younger than his years. Only when Sam hit the pump immediately, did Dean finally let himself relax.

And apparently, Sam's relief was nearly instant as well. Dean watched as his brother's hands relaxed and a goofy smile spread across the kid's face.

Dean snorted, "You feelin' good there, Samantha?"

Sam smiled. "Mmm."

"Good. Cause I gotta tell you, man, I'm ready for a little shut-eye myself." Dean pulled the armchair up close to Sam's bed and settled comfortably into it. "I'll be right here, okay?"

Sam nodded, his eyes closing, and Dean sighed contentedly. It sucked they had to be here, but at least they were together where he could keep an eye out for anything heading Sam's way.

He felt himself fading quick, the monotonous click of Sam's monitor lulling him into sleep. And when the door opened later, and Monte and his buddies slipped inside the room, both Sam and Dean were down for the count.


	8. The Fight

Damn. All he wanted to do was sleep. The medication had taken his edge off, Dean was here, and all was right with the world.

So where the hell was all that noise …?

Sam struggled to open an eye, and a struggle it was. He vaguely remembered the nurse assuring him that he couldn't overdose by using the plunger, but what the hell?

His face didn't seem to want to work.

"Dea …" He tried to form his brother's name, but it got lost somewhere in the transition between brain and mouth. And besides, he was pretty sure that was Dean over there against the wall - held in place by two gorillas while a third man kept his hand on the back of Dean's head, mashing his brother's face into the wall.

This should be alarming. Sam should be alarmed, right?

He struggled to speak.

Dammit. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Dean!" He managed to croak, but nobody heard him over the shouting.

Who was shouting? Was that Dean? No, wait. Dean's voice was the one streaming the constant flow of obscenities. The shouting was coming from the asshole who pressed Dean's head to the wall - something about breaching a contract maybe? The guy was old, older than Dean, older than Dad even. Sam didn't recognize him, didn't recognize any of them, in fact. What the hell were they doing?

Sam watched sluggishly as the three men peeled his brother off the wall and tried to force him toward the door. One of the men had a knife, and he brandished it toward Sam menacingly. Sam saw the guy take a single step toward the bed, but then Dean landed on him like a house, taking him out of the line of sight. Both men were on the floor, and Sam could hear Dean's boots scraping against tile. He felt the vibration clear up to his cheekbones when the pair rolled into the side of his bed so hard it skidded sideways several inches.

Dean's voice was audible above all the rest, promising what he was going to do to everyone in the room, and Sam snorted, hoping that didn't include himself. He stopped chuckling though when he saw the figure rise up from the floor and hover over him menacingly. He stared, frozen, still too groggy to do much more than slur his alarm as the man buried his left hand in Sam's hair and raised the knife to his throat.

"Nuh …" Sam managed, pain making a startling reappearance as the man jerked his head back roughly. The movement caused his entire body to shift on the bed, shooting a bolt of agony from his gut down through his groin, and, unable to help himself, he screamed.

The man sneered down at him, a sick smile twisting his features, and Sam thought he said something about screaming for him as he tightened his fist in his hair and began shaking him. He pressed the knife to his throat.

The scream left Sam's mouth before he could stop it, and somewhere down deep inside, he felt shame at the way the man was manipulating him. Then he heard Dean's roar, and the hands that were hurting him were gone. He curled up on his side on the bed, trying to draw his knees up into a fetal position, but every movement felt like fire.

This had to be a little what Hell felt like.

Sam gasped like a fish, trying to breathe through like Dad had taught him, but air was elusive. From the corner of his eye, he saw several other men pour into the room. There was more shouting, and then a thud as though someone had bounced off a wall.

Then his doctor was there with a syringe, and Sam's world went blissfully dark.

"Nuh …" He said, fading. "Dean. What …?"

###

Paul paced, furious. The kid in the bed - had to be a brother - looked to be no older than about 14. Yet, when reinforcements had finally arrived and they'd burst into the room, the boy was screaming and his neck was bleeding. It was obvious one of the three had hurt him.

A fourteen-year-old kid.

Paul wanted to vomit.

His gaze fell on Dean who sat quiet on the floor outside his brother's door - knees drawn up, hands clasped in front of his face. Though Paul couldn't see his eyes for the way he leaned his head on his hands, the boy's body was shaking.

"Trying not to cry." Paul thought, and seethed anew. He wanted to go sink down next to the kid and offer a shoulder, but he knew Winchester was too proud to accept it.

The kid was him done over. Paul knew exactly what Dean was feeling. On a good day, Winchester would never let his feelings show like this. But that was on a good day. Paul knew for a fact that the boy was half-starved and sleep-deprived. He was probably dehydrated too. Pile all that up on top of an injured little brother and a prime case of exhaustion, and you got tears.

Hell, a fucking statue would cry under those circumstances. Paul stood shaking his head, knowing Dean would beat himself up for it later.

Mick's eyes met his, and Paul suddenly had to turn away. He felt the hand on his shoulder and steeled his voice not to betray him.

"I knew he was a sonofabitch, you know?" Paul ground out. "But who …?" He risked a glance at his old friend.

Mick's eyes were damp, and the look of sadness on his face was almost Paul's undoing. "Takes a heartless bastard to hurt a kid." Mick agreed, shaking his head. "Wish we'd a been a few minutes sooner."

Paul opened his mouth to reply, but stopped when the door to the kid's room opened. He watched Dean shoot to his feet as the physician stepped out and tugged the door closed behind him.

Paul couldn't help himself, he and Mick crowded in to hear the verdict.

The doctor glanced them over and then settled eyes on Dean. "Your brother tore six of his stitches, and he has a small cut on his throat that I've bandaged." The man paused. "The men who did this …?"

"Gone." Paul piped up. "The police took them all."

The doctor sighed. "Good. I don't want to have to stitch my patient up a third time."

"He's okay though, right?" Dean asked, his voice unsteady.

The doctor nodded. "He'll survive."

"What about the pain? Is he in any pain?" Dean pried.

The doctor's eyes softened, "No. He's sedated. No pain."

"What about when he wakes up?"

"He'll still have the morphine trigger. Sam's going to be a bit more stiff than he was, but other than that, any damage was minor." He clapped Dean on the shoulder. "You should get checked out down in the ER yourself." He gestured to the knot on the boy's forehead.

Dean nodded unconvincingly, and the doctor smiled. "Well, if you need anything, Sam's nurse is just down the hall, and I'll be back, myself, in the morning." He glanced at his watch, "Which, I see is just a few hours away." He strode off, leaving Dean, Paul and Mick to stare at the closed door.

Dean spoke first. "I, uh, I need to thank you." He raised embarrassed eyes to Paul. "I … he … I should have known, I guess. Should have been prepared."

Paul smiled, "You couldn't know."

Dean smiled, but it lacked mirth. "Oh, trust me. I could've."

Paul frowned, wondering if the time was right. "Dean …" He began.

"Yeah?"

Paul hesitated, not wanting to burden the kid more than he was already. But then he thought back to how lonely he'd felt all those years ago, and how badly he'd needed a friend before Mick had reached out, and he had the need to set Dean's mind at ease.

"I used to be one of Monte's kids, Dean. Trust me. I know."

Dean's head shot up, and he gazed at Paul with an expression the older man couldn't read. "Monte's kid? Is that what they call me?" He demanded, and Paul swore he saw humiliation in Dean's eyes.

Paul shrugged. "It's what they called me."

Dean stared for a moment before nodding. "Thanks again." He said, including Mick in his gaze. Then he slipped inside the hospital room and was gone, leaving Paul to wonder if he'd just made a colossal mistake.


	9. Cappuccino by the Sea

Sam inhaled, the scent of sea air filling his lungs with memories of days past. He smiled and was instantly transported back eight years to the summer he'd spent with his father and brother along the coast of Carolina. There had been a rawhead that year, and it had taken Dad and Dean months to track down and kill the thing. Surprisingly, most of what Sam remembered from that summer was time spent walking on the beach with Dean. The geography of California was different, but the scent and the view remained the same. He let his hand relax, worn duffle dropping onto a sand-dusted deck, feet itching to walk bare along the water's edge. He tilted his head back and smiled, eyes closed.

From a top step mere feet away, Dean saw and cataloged. Sam relaxed; check. Sam smiling; check.

Sam alive and breathing and standing on his own two feet with no vital organs spilling out of him; check.

Dean allowed his own smile to form briefly then, the feeling foreign. Sam would comment that Dean's smile was rusty. And deep down, the older boy would be unable to argue the point.

Smiling wasn't high on the list of Winchester responsibilities, after all. Killing things was. Watching his back was. Looking out for Sammy definitely was … a priority.

Hence the sudden, unscheduled vacation.

Sam needed time for his body to heal, and Paul had offered them the moon. At first, Dean had declined the use of the Angello family beach house, but then the trial began. And once it started looking as though Monte and his henchmen would be acquitted of all charges, including the assault with a deadly weapon charge against the man who'd tried to kill Sam, Dean realized it was time to unplug and to take his brother somewhere far away.

And looking at Sam now, Dean realized his decision was sound. Sam needed this. Hell, HE needed this. Vacation had never been a word that even existed in the Winchester family vocabulary, but with Dad in the wind and Sam so sick, it was way overdue.

Dean moved forward with this own bag, jostling Sam's shoulder with his own. "Outta the way, bitch. What, are you high?"

Dean glanced back, snickering, as Sam shot him the stink-eye.

"You're a jerk, Dean."

Dean grinned, fitting the key into the lock on the French doors. "You know it," he said, shoving both doors wide and stepping into the open kitchen where he stopped short and whistled. "Think we just struck the mother lode, Sammy."

Dean felt Sam step in behind him and heard his small gasp of surprise as the younger boy noted the expensive marble tiles, shiny steel appliances and what seemed like acres of gleaming granite counter tops.

"Soooooo … you think there's a hot tub?" Dean ventured reverently, hope filling his voice.

"Hell yeah." Sam breathed, a rare grin lighting his face. He stepped forward and ran a tentative hand across an odd-looking machine that obviously took up a place of honor next to the bar sink.

"The hell is that?" Dean asked, brow furrowed.

Sam's eyes shone, "Cappuccino maker." He said, leaning forward and hugging the device.

Dean snorted, eyes rolling. "And that right there? It's why you ain't got a girlfriend, Sammy."

Sam rested his head atop the coffee machine, closed his eyes. "Don't care. Don't need one. Cappuccino."

Dean shook his head, convinced that his kid brother MUST have been adopted. Anyone who'd choose coffee over sex.

That was just wrong.

But then again, the kid was only 16, so he got a pass, Dean supposed.

Of course, that didn't mean Dean wouldn't mind encountering a little action. "Wonder if they got girls here?" He mentioned, dropping his duffle and planting himself, face-first, on the couch. It had been one hell of a drive.

"It's California, Dean." Sam sighed, lowering himself gingerly down on the microsuede sectional across from his brother. "Pretty sure." His hand automatically went to his side as if checking to make sure parts of him were still intact.

Dean saw, but didn't comment. He was well aware of the fact that Sam still had pain, regardless of how hard the kid tried to hide it from him. But if Geekboy was determined to suck it up, damned if Dean was gonna call him out on it. So long as nothing important was spilling out onto the upholstery, he was content to pretend Sam was fine.

Not so fine as to take on a hunt, however, or to withstand the stress of a shitty verdict. Dean was determined to protect his kid brother from those things, especially now with Dad's betrayal so recent and Sam's own health in a transitional stage.

It was the infection that had set in after Monte … well, Sam had nearly died, and Dean still had trouble sleeping at night when he thought about who it was who'd granted that bastard and his goons access to the youngest Winchester. He stared across the couch to his brother and studied him silently, noting the pale face and slightly labored breathing. It had only been three steps, for cripe's sake. There was no reason for Sam to be out of breath, except for one.

The kid wasn't as all-in as he tried to let on.

And Dean was bound and determined to get him healthy again, fatten him up a bit, put some pink back in his cheeks.

It was what Dean lived for, after all.

"So … did Paul make this kind of money just … driving?" Sam suddenly asked, jolting Dean back into the moment.

The older boy sat up and tugged his boots off, looking around him. "I dunno. Maybe, I guess."

Sam nailed him then with a hopeful look. "Think YOU'LL make that kind of money driving?"

Dean tried to grin to hide the heartsick. He hadn't yet told Sam that the mess with Monte pretty much heralded the end of his racing career. Paul had managed to get Dean out of his contract, but only by threatening to bring old secrets to light. Whatever those secrets were, they'd apparently scared the old bastard enough that he had signed Dean free.

And Dean wanted to ask Paul what he'd had for leverage, but at the same time, he didn't. He had a pretty good idea of what Lyle Montrose was capable of, and none of it was good.

At least the Angello's lawyer had been able to make Monte pay up what he owed Dean. It amounted to two month's worth of back wages, and it was enough to buy him and Sam the gas to get here and to stock the cabinets with groceries, so Dean figured it wasn't a total loss. He shrugged, "Dunno. Maybe." He pulled himself to his feet and headed for the kitchen. Tossing open the fridge, he grinned. Nothing in there but two six-packs of the good stuff. He slipped two of them out of the carton, twisted the tops off and brought one to his little brother.

Sam looked startled. "Since when did you let me start drinkin' beer?"

Dean chugged and smiled, "Since now, Francis. What? We're in for the night. You too good to have a beer with your older and much better-lookin' brother?"

Sam suddenly looked torn, and Dean had no idea why. "Lighten up, Sammy. It's just beer." He cracked, joking to lighten the mood.

Sam took a hesitant drink then, working hard not to make a face, and leaned back on the couch cushions. "I'll drink with you, Dean." He reassured his brother. "I was just thinking about the painkillers I took this …"

"Shit, Sam!" Dean growled, reaching over and snatching the beer away. "Why didn't you remind me?"

"Wait! I'll drink with you, Dean!" He argued, mourning the loss of his beer. He tried to swipe the bottle back, but Dean held him off.

"Like hell you will!" Dean countered, returning to the kitchen and shooting daggers at the cappuccino maker. "How do you work this girly thing, anyway? It come with some Midol?" He fiddled with a few of the knobs and leaned over to see if it was plugged in.

Sam joined him then, chuckling. "It if WAS a girl, maybe you'd know what to do." He razzed, following the cord down behind the cabinet and kneeling carefully down to look inside.

"Damn right I would. You wouldn't." Dean shot back, still angry with himself for forgetting that Sam was still hopped up on a variety of prescription drugs. He rose up from looking behind the appliance only to crack his head on the bottom of the upper door.

"Fuck!"

Sam glanced up, concerned. "Dean?"

Dean rubbed the back of his head, turning away to aim the explosion of curse words away from his brother.

Sam's mouth twitched. "Dean?" He repeated, totally not snorting.

"I'm glad you think this is funny, Sam." the older boy barked. "So concussions are funny now?"

Sam stared. "Let me look." he offered kindly, struggling not to giggle.

But Dean heard anyway. He shot his brother a look that might kill a weaker man. "Keep your hands off, Sasquatch. I'm fine. Just … fix the damn coffee maker or something." He shuffled off in the direction of the hallway. "I'm gonna go find my room. Try and make yourself useful."

In the kitchen, Sam grinned and shook his head. Embarrassed Dean was almost as much fun as drunk Dean. It had been awhile since Sam had been treated to the spectacle, and he couldn't help but wallow just a little.

He had a feeling this vacation was going to be good for both of them. His eyes lit up with glee as the cappuccino maker suddenly hummed to life, and the green light came on in front. Rummaging in the cupboard above, he found a half-box of powder and set about making himself the most indulgent flavor he could find.

He hoped there'd be lots of foam on top.


End file.
